


Like light, refracted

by tinsnip



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale likes him that way, Crowley isn't smooth, M/M, celestial lovemaking, easier than air with air
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: Full steam ahead, decided Crowley: “I think we should get naked.”Ethereal/occult lovemaking of the rather fluffy variety.





	Like light, refracted

**Author's Note:**

> There are elements in this fic from the Pretenders' sparkling [ "Don't Get Me Wrong".](https://youtu.be/P6u9C_SH3mQ)

“Aziraphale, I’ve had a thought,” said Crowley.

This was the third time Crowley had interrupted Aziraphale’s reading that afternoon. The first time, Aziraphale had caught him humming. The second time, he’d caught himself and felt more than a little annoyed about it. Humming wasn’t Crowley’s style. But then neither was feeling all twisted up inside, half-dreamy, half-anxious, and the whole thing had him a bit put out.

Aziraphale raised a brow, half-listening.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a thought. And we don’t have to... er... you know, I...”

This wasn’t going well. Aziraphale was tapping a finger on the side of his book, brow still raised, and Crowley had about five seconds to get to the point.

Full steam ahead, he decided: “I think we should get naked.”

Aziraphale looked up at him sharply, not a little startled.

Crowley was startled too. He hadn’t meant to say it like _that._ He’d meant to be at least a bit suave. But it had just slipped out, and now he had to deal with it.

“I mean... you know. Without... all this,” he said, and waved a hand inelegantly. Aziraphale watched it, frowning, and then put down his book.

“What on earth has gotten into you?”

He didn’t want to _talk_ about it. This was embarrassing enough. “Just... what do you think? Properly naked.” He was trying for tempting. He had a feeling he wasn’t anywhere near it.

Aziraphale seemed to be feeling for his words. “I know you don’t mean without clothing...?” he said delicately.

“I mean... without skin.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed further, slightly concerned, and then cleared like the dawn of a spring day. “Oh, you mean without _bodies,”_ he said.

Yes, that was what Crowley meant, and he nodded. A weird thought, weirder than it should be, and that was one reason why he felt strange this morning. Crowley was usually extremely comfortable in his own skin. This morning, though, he felt almost like he needed to shed.

Aziraphale was looking slightly incredulous. “I thought you liked all this body business,” he said, encompassing an awful lot of activities in one slightly dismissive phrase. “You are the one who started it, after all.”

Crowley shifted awkwardly. This had forged past embarrassment, and was bearing gleefully down on humiliation. He plowed on. “I _do._ But—”

How to say it?

Sometimes, a demon could dream.

 

Crowley, sleeping, usually dreamed of whatever he liked. Crowley, sleeping, was only slightly less lucid than Crowley, awake.

Preferred dreams included driving really fast on an endless road, trailing sparks and adoring spectators. Another good one involved flipping the bird, two-handed, to assorted Hellish colleagues, knowing smugly that he was untouchable because of fuzzily unassailable dream logic. Crowley’s dreams were better than television. 1

Sometimes, though, if he was really tired or was worrying at a problem, his mind would do as it liked. Dreaming would pull him out of himself. He’d have a different form, or a form he hadn’t chosen. He’d be doing something he didn’t want to do. He’d be escaping, fleeing punishment or forced reward, and he’d wake up unhappy and feeling as if he ought to get a do-over. This was, he understood, normal for humanity, although it seemed a bit much to force someone just borrowing the shape to go through it too.

And every now and then, without promise or premonition, he’d get something better than he could ever have dreamed up himself.

 

“—but I saw you. Last night.”

Aziraphale’s brows went up. “I do beg your pardon?”

“In my dream, I mean,” said Crowley, not quite muttering. Oh, this was going all wrong. He’d woken up feeling strange and warm and good in a way that felt extremely inappropriate. He’d floated on a sort of mental cloud through his morning. When Aziraphale had come by for drinks, he’d felt weirdly, itchily delighted by his just being there. He’d been _humming,_ for Hell’s sake, he’d vibrated his vocal cords unintentionally from sheer anticipation. Now Aziraphale was looking at him as if he were some sort of small fuzzy animal that had just made wee in its box and expected applause.

“Sleeping again, are you?” Aziraphale's voice was patient. _Yech_. “Please do tell me all about your ‘dream’.”

Crowley’d faced tougher foes than Aziraphale's long-suffering indulgence, so taking a deep breath wasn’t at all necessary. Breathing in general wasn’t at all necessary. Still, he’d found it did soothe the nerves. 2 “You were in it. And you were—”

_Bright and blinding; neon, strobing—_

“—lovely,” said Crowley.

That made Aziraphale blink. “I’m sorry?”

Damn it, that really wasn’t it. But the sounds Crowley could make by flapping a human jaw about weren’t remotely adequate for expressing something like this. He persevered. “I saw you. I remembered... you. The real you. And we were...” Aziraphale was peering at him now, full-barrel narrow-eyed angelic inquisitiveness, and that always made him slightly annoyed. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

Aziraphale said mildly, “Forgive me, my dear,” and steepled his fingers, thinking. Crowley writhed mentally. His stupid trousers were too fashionable to have pockets. He couldn’t shove his hands into them and slouch, abashed. _Oh, never mind,_ was floating up through his consciousness, pausing to avoid the bends, and making a final break for his lips—

“Hmm. Well. I suppose it is an interesting thought,” said Aziraphale, pursing his lips, and _never mind_ was plunged bubbling to the bottom in cement boots.

“Really!”

“It _has_ been a while,” mused Aziraphale, as he sat up on the sofa and shrugged his shoulders, working out the kinks. “This book isn’t nearly as good as the last in the series. And I have nothing else planned for the afternoon.” He paused, thoughtful and bright-eyed. “Good heavens, how long has it been?”

Crowley sat beside him, crossing his legs, and kicked off his shoes. He put his sunglasses carefully on the arm of the sofa and rubbed his eyes. “A couple of hundred years for me. By myself, I mean,” he said. He did not allow himself to smirk victoriously.

“It’s been at least that long for me,” said Aziraphale.

He shouldn’t ask. “How about with anyone else?”

Aziraphale looked at him levelly, mildly annoyed. Well. That was all right, then. He didn’t need to feel pleased about it. He did anyway.

“Well, then,” asked Aziraphale, drawing out the words awkwardly, “how shall we do it?”, and Crowley had to bite back what had gone from smirk to increasingly embarrassing smile. A much better class of embarrassing, though. Front door, not servants’ entrance.

“We could leave our bodies here, I suppose...?”

“Mmm,” agreed Aziraphale, then raised a finger. “I don’t want to be Noticed, of course.”

“Nor do I,” said Crowley. That was obvious; it’d be a bit hard to explain. It’d been easier to get away from it all once upon a time: miles of open countryside, a dark night, the humans huddling inside by little fires to get away from the wonders of creation that were more lavishly endowed with sharp pointy bits; there’d been acres of space for two beings to engage in Something that would occupy most of their attention. True, angelic or demonic notice had been more of a worry back then. Not so much these days; the field agents were spread too thin, not paying much attention to what Crowley or Aziraphale were doing. Convenient, definitely.

Still, though... the humans were _everywhere._ They didn’t notice much. But they’d notice _this._

Aziraphale’s lips were set in a small smile, and he tilted his head. “We could go up,” he suggested.

“You mean...?”

“Yes.”

Oh. _Up._

 

Once Crowley had looked down on the world, watching it unfold, hearing its song from high above. Now he rather preferred to stay on the ground, dealing with minutiae, tugging little holes in the great weave as he could. It was much easier to deal with a tremendous and beautiful tapestry when one was able to see how badly it was all put together up close; _really,_ it was almost doing Heaven a favour to point out the knotty bits. 3

Going Up meant getting away from those knots. Going Up meant... seeing the whole thing. The whole thing was breathtaking, inasmuch as he had any breath, and it really didn’t help. And then there were the connotations of Up. It was awfully... _celestial._

Of course Heaven wasn’t Up any more than Hell was Down. Heaven was everywhere, and Hell was everywhere, and always the twain would meet. But there were certain places it was much easier to feel Heavenly, and those places made Crowley very itchy.

 

Aziraphale was looking at him in that way that made Crowley wish for a lead apron. “Will that be all right?” he asked.

Going Up, he meant. Aziraphale was being perceptive today, which was inconvenient. Still, Crowley didn’t see an option. And he wanted this. He really, really wanted it.

“It’ll be fine, angel,” he said easily, sliding an arm around Aziraphale. “I think it might just be fantastic.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced, but his hand rested on Crowley’s thigh, gripping softly. “If you’re sure.”

“Hey, don’t worry. I promise I’ll show you a good time,” said Crowley, trying to radiate smooth.

Aziraphale’s brows lifted. “I have no doubt of that,” he said primly.

“Well, then,” said Crowley, feeling rather good all of a sudden and absolutely one-hundred-percent not at all nervous, “shall we?”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale. He rested his hand on the back of Crowley’s head and tipped their foreheads together. Involuntarily, Crowley’s eyes closed.

_Oh—_

Just a hint. Just a _hint_ of Aziraphale’s aura, bleeding through, and he’d hissed between his teeth.

He felt Aziraphale stiffen next to him. “Are you—”

“I’m fine. Just...” He just had to open himself a bit at a time, like eyelids lifting slowly—

_—blinding—_

But he didn’t need his eyes anymore. He let that go, let hearing go, let all the senses go, and for a moment simply was—

And there was Aziraphale, next to him.

_hello, my dear._

Light flashed through him.

Slowly, slowly, _are you sure, my dear? / yes, only please don’t go / of course not,_ he levered himself slowly out of the safety of his body - no, not his body, it had never really been _his_ body, it was convenient and comfortable and he knew how to work all the tendons and gooey bits but he didn’t need any of it—

Oh, this felt _strange—_

But Aziraphale was there with him, laughing to himself, _dear me, it **has** been too long, hasn’t it, _as the two of them stretched out their cramped and aching souls, expanding beyond boundaries that had stopped feeling limiting long ago, had started to feel necessary in a world that had gotten louder and closer—

_well, we aren’t really of the world / aren’t we? / oh, look!_

He was floating over himself now, not alone; Aziraphale was with him, near but not part of him, not yet, and they looked down at their bodies on the sofa, curled together, eyes closed, and it was really quite funny and yet so strange—

He saw his body through Aziraphale’s perceptions, long and angular like a stalking bird, and he laughed and felt Aziraphale laughing at how round he was, how soft, _I’m a dandelion clock! / no, you’re just... you’re just right / doesn’t matter / no, it doesn’t_

_shall we?_

—and he wasn’t sure, but still he reached out—

_Up!_

And they rose, away from themselves, away from the small apartment, through the roof and up and up and Up, as the building receded, as the buildings around it crowded in close together, as the Thames shone dully up at them, as the whole great whirl of London became nothing but—

Nothing but—

 _Backdrop_ , as the world expanded below him/them and the sun’s great glare illuminated everything as clouds drifted over/through/under them—

_can you hear it? / i’d forgotten—_

The hum, the whine, of the auras of the world churning, clashing, chording; of Good and Evil and just plain Human all working at their own purposes, loud louder loudest—

_how did we ever—? / i don’t know, it’s— / too long, too long_

They stopped rising and held there just above the clouds, taking a moment to not-breathe. He felt Aziraphale there with him, near him, almost of him, and the noise was there with them too, flowing through them. The wants, needs, prayers, curses tugged at him, at Aziraphale too, pulling at them like currents hinting at a riptide. He held on to Aziraphale. It helped to have him there. Together, it wasn’t so bad.

_hold on, my dear._

Brightness with every word, and Crowley saw Aziraphale there with him, really saw him: limned with light that shone from inside him, light that lanced, that almost hurt—

_are you dimming yourself, angel? / well, of course i am, and so are you_

All right, yes, he was, not entirely consciously, but he could feel himself flame and could feel Aziraphale’s slight recoil—

And between them, hanging as always, the Question: the one Crowley had asked without expecting an answer; the one Aziraphale refused to ask, twining himself in Faith—

 _how can we? how did we?_ An angel, a demon, oil and water swirling around each other—

How could a measly few hundred years feel this long?

Below him, the incredible beauty of the world, not to be looked at for long. Above him, the sky, offering him no answers. Up just wasn’t _safe._ And here he was, alone with his enemy, completely exposed.

Aziraphale offered condolences. He knew exactly how Crowley felt. That was surprising.

_don’t you like it up here? / it’s beautiful / ...yes, and?_

Aziraphale didn't answer. Instead, Crowley felt him move around him, wind to his flame, and felt himself burn brighter in response.

It’d be easier with a demon, not that he trusted any enough, not that any of them were worth it. _easier with an angel,_ he heard Aziraphale murmur on a subtle level, _but they’re all so dull, i don’t want any of them—_

Well, and that was their whole stupid problem, wasn’t it: they only wanted each other.

He rippled with Aziraphale’s amusement, echoing it back to him.

_i’m not sure how to start, angel._

_this way, i think,_ said Aziraphale hesitantly, and slowly, somehow, softened, wind now only the softest breeze, not enough to threaten his flame,

and Aziraphale

opened

pulled Crowley in

(how could he gasp without lungs?)

and Crowley, understanding, suddenly remembering, opened himself as he was pulled inside and slipped into, between, filling the empty spaces in Aziraphale, feeling Aziraphale expand, shimmering, and he was oh so carefully burning, carefully holding himself just so, the touch of a match to a quick finger, the ache of a handprint on sunburned skin—

_oh! like this! / yes, like this / oh. oh, i— / i’m not— / it’s all right / more? / **please**_

and he was there, he was finally inside Aziraphale, in the eye of the whirlwind, the mind of his angel, seeing the lovely way he worked, feeling the clicking whir of his thoughts, the pretty lists, the joy in the categorization and Manyness of all things, and inside himself Aziraphale was dancing at the heart of the flame, moving, touching, stroking, exclaiming in soft delight at how beautiful he thought Crowley Was—

of how beautiful they, together, Were—

through them both pulsed a chime fused with a deep, buzzing hum—

he was strobing, and Aziraphale was dazzled and dazzling, and the insistent drone of everything else had faded beyond notice; Up was all right, everything was all right—

within him, around him, he felt his angel laugh like fireworks; ozone sparked to life around them, and Crowley split like light, refracted—

 

“Oh, what the hell—”

They looked up from their instruments in disbelief.

“Where did _that_ come from?”

“We didn’t have any weather on the METARs!”

“Oh, and it’s a big one—”

“Shit,” muttered the captain quietly, and thumbed the intercom. “Folks, I’m afraid we’re about to hit a bit of turbulence—”

“A _bit_ of turbulence,” hissed the co-pilot unhelpfully, “oh, is that all—”

“—so we’re going to ask you to buckle up, because things might get a little bumpy.”

And things did.

In that particular bit of sky, without any apparent provocation, clouds swirled. Nearby, thunder flashed. There was Something in the air. 4

 

* * *

  

1 Even the late-night, blurred-out channels.

2 Which he also didn’t need, but had gotten rather used to.

3 Except that of course it wasn’t a favour, it was an Hellish wile, because the last thing that Hell needed was to be doing Heaven any favours.

4 A few hundred years ago, there hadn't _been_ any airplanes. It was quite reasonable to have forgotten about them. (At least, that’s what Aziraphale said later, defensively, as Crowley watched the news report and laughed and laughed.)


End file.
